Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Sipping her wine, she glances at me.
“It’s this way.”
I turn and walk away, knowing that the surest way to get
her to do something is not to insist that she do it.
Unless she’s tied up in bed, she hates being bossed around.
Sure enough, she follows, her footsteps soft on the wood
floor. I lead her past the kitchen and formal dining room, down
a corridor, and to one of the guest rooms at the end. Then I
open the door and stand back to allow her to look inside.
Her gaze wary, she peeks inside the room.
She gasps.
“It’s yours,” I murmur, enjoying her expression of
astonishment.
She stares for a moment, looking around with wide eyes.
“How long have you had it like this?”
“Since you first told me you were mine.”
“But you said we could never live together. That I could
never even visit you here. So why go to all this trouble?”
She gestures to the room. It’s an artist’s studio, filled with
artist’s things: paint, brushes, easels, blank canvases of all
sizes waiting to be colored in.
Reaching out to stroke her satin cheek, I murmur, “When
the longing got too bad, I’d come sit in here and imagine you
on that stool in front of the easel, painting something that
made you happy. Maybe a picture of me.”
She looks at me with tears in her eyes.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t. Whatever happens next, she
has to be the one who initiates it.
I might be the king of the Russian mafia now, but my
queen will always hold the most power. Only she can make or
break me with a single word.
She says, “You said you’d never bring me here. So what’s
changed?”